y dad, sporting old jeans and a polo shirt greeted me at the door
with a big hug and offered me a double espresso -- drinking strong coffee
with my dad is one of those daughter/father bonding experiences. My
father drinks approximately five double espressos a day, made lovingly
from his little European coffee machine. We sat comfortably in the
kitchen, sipping our caffeinated speed. After a few moments of silence, I
asked, "Dad, how am I going to make any money being a creative human -- an
artist? How am I going to do what I really want to do and expect to
support myself?" My dad smiled at me, and his eyes faded out for a
moment --
Maybe he was thinking about the very first memory of his life. He was five years old -- riding his tricycle along the narrow paths of a park in Martha's Vineyard -- his dad playing trombone and conducting a small band in the center of the park on a white wooden bandstand. The music from that summer day in the park made him decide in high school that it would be cool to learn how to play the trombone, so he asked his dad to teach him. He assumed that learning how to play the instrument would be very easy, but when he sat down in his room with his dad he was unable to make a single clear sound and started to cry. His father patted him on the back and said, "Listen son, I have this extra trombone, and I am going to leave it with you, right here in your closet, so whenever you feel like giving it a shot, just pick it up." The teary eyed boy nodded. A few days later, the trombone lingering in his room like a shadow, he picked it up again, with more confidence, and learned how to play. He started a band with a bunch of friends, and spent his high school years playing trombone, learning how to arrange- -teaching himself music. He played out locally in Boston, near his home town of Attleboro, Massachusetts, sitting in for society gigs (or cover bands), and when he was 21 years old, he got on a bus, $200 in hand, and decided to give it a shot in New York City. In 1938, six months after his arrival in the Big Apple, he was playing with Bunny Berigan's band.
My dad sat back, returning from his reverie, put his hand on my back,
and gave me a reassuring smile. "If you love what you do, and you do it
because you love it -- it will happen. It's not about money. When I started
out, all I did was play my trombone -- I sat in at every club in New York
City, jamming with musicians, because it felt right -- and because it felt
right and we were having fun -- the people dancing and sipping their drinks
in the clubs felt it too and it made them smile. I didn't get paid. I
didn't even care that I didn't get paid. I did the rehearsal band scene
too. I would bring my arrangements around and give them to the bands just
to hear them played. People got to know me, 'Oh ya, that Conniff guy,
he's good' -- I was sitting in the Forest bar with Joe Dickson, a friend of
mine from back home in New England -- he told me Bunny Berigan had had a
run in with the first trombone player so there was a spot open, and asked
me if I would like to give it a shot. Would I!! The next night I went to
the Paradise Restaurant on 49th Street and Broadway which was where they
were playing, and I sat in. The band started playing 'It's Wonderful.'"
My dad, as he always does, started singing the melody of "It's Wonderful"
to me, in that special musician way--part of him still present with me in
the kitchen, another part of in the land where only sound and notes exist.
I smiled after a few bars, and confirmed that I recognized the song.